He did not fail to notice the change in her tone, the vanishing of her smile. It did not surprise him. He stood in the doorway, hat in one hand, the little girl clinging to the other, and he felt that, to her piercing glance, he was a sorry enough figure. He felt shabby, as if he had been long battered by wind and rain; he felt that somehow the emptiness of his pockets was obvious to any one. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I’m afraid I’ve disturbed you. I thought perhaps I could see Miss Barron, just for a moment.” “Come in!” said Mrs. Barron, and, turning to the manicurist, “Later, my dear!” she said. Ross came in, and the manicurist, gathering her things together on her tray, made haste to escape. She went out, closing the door behind her. “Mr. Ross!” said Mrs. Barron, in the same tone of stern wonder. “I’m sorry,” he said, again. “I’m afraid I’ve dis—” “But, my dear boy, what has happened?” she cried. He was absolutely astounded by her voice, by the kindly anxiety in her face. “I just thought—” he began. “Sit down!” said she. “Here! On the sofa. You _do_ look so tired!” “I—I am,” he admitted. “And such a dear little girl!” said Mrs. Barron. “Such a dear little mite.” She had sat down on the sofa beside the child, and was stroking her fair mane, while her eyes were fixed upon Ross with genuine solicitude. She looked so kind, so honest, so sensible—he marveled that he had ever thought her formidable. “You wanted to see Phyllis?” she went on. “She’s out, just now; but you must wait.” “By George!” cried Ross. For he had an inspiration. With all his stubborn soul he had been dreading to meet Phyllis in his present condition. He was penniless, and, what was worse, he could not rid himself of an unreasonable conviction of guilt. And now that he found Mrs. Barron so kind— “Mrs. Barron!” he said. “It’s really you I ought to speak to. It’s about this child. She’s a—sort of cousin of mine, and she’s”—he paused a moment—“alone.” Mrs. Barron was looking down at the child, very thoughtfully. “I don’t know any one in this country,” he went on, “so I thought if you’d advise me. I want to find a home for her. A—a real home, you know, with people who’ll—be fond of her. Just for a few months; later on I’ll take her myself. But, just now—” His dark face flushed. “I’m a bit hard up just now,” he said; “but I’ll find a job right away, and I’ll be able to pay for her board and so on.” Mrs. Barron continued to look thoughtful, and it occurred to him that his request must seem odd to her—very odd. The flush on his face deepened. “I’m sorry,” he said, coldly; “but there are a good many things I can’t explain—”